When our three were in high school, we had their friends in and out of the house daily. The Husband and I volunteered so much in their music and theater programs that we knew their most beloved teachers well and became buddies with their closest classmates. Those kids were my kids, and I was honored that they liked us and turned to us for love and nurturing. We were the village that helped raise those children.
In the face of yet another horrific mass murder, it is now the Parkland kids who are raising us.
They’re raising us impotent adults above our defeated, hopeless inaction about the idiocy of gun obsession in our nation.
Raising the conversation so it will be heard.
Raising our consciousness, raising our empathy, raising our morality.
I see these kids’ images and my heart stirs at the anger and resolve and courage on their faces.
I hear their words and I weep openly over their eloquence and their heartfelt demands.
I’ve never met the Parkland kids. I probably never will. But I love each and every one of them, as if they were the part of the crowd that used to hang out at our house for rehearsals, dinners, and laughter and in our van on the many road trips we took for auditions and performances.
These are our kids. We can’t fail them. They need us just as much as we need them.